


Bickering's end

by birdieflies



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Porn Without Plot, bespin trash, vague force awakens spoilers of the sort you've probably already guessed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdieflies/pseuds/birdieflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Han reminisces on the way their fighting became foreplay. Porn without plot, but with a ridiculous amount of character work.</p><p>Like the tags say, really vague Force Awakens spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bickering's end

The fact Leia was almost always on his mind in meetings and mess halls could never have surprised anyone in the Alliance, or even the more refined members of the Republic. He was that transparent, and with good reason, so awe-inspiringly besotted that he didn’t balk at even the most girlish gestures Leia made to him in front of his men. 

Of course, Leia Organa, and then Leia Organa _Solo_ , had a spine of titanisteel. The girlish gestures only came once, for a duration of only a few months. Han had been so enraptured, his chest swollen with the pride that yes, this would be his son, (and it would be his son, though not in the way he had envisioned it), he forgot to even attempt to save face when Leia asked him not to go on any training exercises until her term was over. Instead he acquiesced, spending more time fussing over his waddling wife than worrying about the snickers behind his back.

No, it was the content of what Han thought about that would shock those around him. It would stun them like an ion cannon, he decided. It had stunned him the first time, if he were honest. Because his princess, their head of this and chief of that, the woman who only wore white in public until they were married, the woman who sat erect in meetings and spoke in the most highfalutin basic he’d ever heard, who said things like _“I have a bad feeling”_ instead of that she’d got one… her favorite way to fuck was rough and dirty and wonderful.

He’d learned it early on in their relationship. Later, as the years stretched out that it all seemed so far behind him, it seemed almost as though he had found it out just as things were getting physical. But at the time, it had seemed far in: three weeks into the long haul (he refused to think of it as ending in Bespin, even with the wonderful sunset and the way Leia’s skin looked against the ruby satin covers of the bed), when each new lesson about her seemed a lifetime since the last.

He had tread lightly to that point, as he had seen the end coming. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that this woman, who had confided in him that _yes, she had seen her planet destroyed_ , and had wondered how the end of something so blue and green and gold could be so red and orange and yellow… his leaving would not break her. But he still could not bare to bring her any more pain.

In the first week or so he’d been delicate with her, truly nervous for the first time since he’d really been a boy. He’d been gentle, too. It took a while before things got physical, and even then he spent the first couple of experiences relying entirely on his dexterity; the first time he drew it out of her just with his hands. He had felt it necessary to make sure she really wanted to go that far, to make sure she really got all she deserved without any possibility of pain. Three weeks later she had smacked him with a pillow and accused him of showing off, as though trying to prove how good his hands were at controls.

They spent their days in the cockpit, sometimes with Han showing Leia the basics of flying the Falcon, but most of the time talking about anything else. Their planets. The empire. History. Their history. He learned so much about her, learned things he never thought to know, told her things he had even forgotten himself. 

They spent their nights becoming even better acquainted, and when they were done she would ask him some deep question about something he had skirted over earlier in the day, thinking he could keep her from noticing. Around the time they started being truly intimate she asked him when the had first been in love. He said he had never been. He decided not to tell he felt increasingly that it was the girl with the long brown hair he was the only one who had really seen, who was a marksman with a blaster and who refused to back down from any challenge. 

A week and a half of that, and he had started to feel comfortable. She did too, apparently, as a few days before his discovery she had found him when he snuck out of bed in just his underwear for some grappa juice (from the carton, no less), and instead of scolding him had smiled before sinking to her knees right there in the galley. 

But the day of the discovery, she wasn’t comfortable. She was anxious. And it was making _him_ anxious. The look in her eye turned his stomach to ice. He would later know it as fear, the special brand that only came out when he or Luke had been drawn in on a particularly stupid mission, or later still when she really began to worry about their son. The next morning, he found a document about Hutts open on her data pad. They were about to pass the halfway mark on their journey.

Her anxiety had manifested in its old way: being a particular pain in his ass. She spent the morning recalculating their rations for the third time, as though still not believing that two months of food for a man and a wookiee would cover a man, a woman and a wookiee for a month. She then kept pacing in and out of the cockpit all day, and when she was in it she kept berating the nav computer (it deserved it, but it was part of his damn ship, and hell if she wasn’t just as temperamental). 

After Chewie relieved them, Han set about making them dinner, frustrated as Leia started demanding ration bars even though she knew they had more than enough nerf steak. Finally he turned to her and asked her what her kriffin’ problem was, because really, your highnessness, if I hadn’t been there last night, I might have thought you really needed to get laid.

That set her off. She started yelling at him, accusing him of all sorts of slights against her, slipping in insults about girelens and grellivets, even throwing in a particularly interesting mention of phallus-eating gaolorwans. As she yelled the ice in her eyes was chased out by heat.

Deciding it was time to shut her up he reached out and took her by the arms, trying to draw her near. Instead she wrenched her arm from him, leaned away from him, declared that he could not kiss her. He tried again, his arms tight around her waist, but she pushed him away, again declaring he did not get to kiss her, he didn’t deserve to kiss her. 

Her eyes were hot, and she did not look away. He pushed her up against the dividing wall between the galley and the break room. He crowded against her, caught her hands in his, held her flat against the wall and leaned over into her ear.

“If you are serious about me stopping, you better call for the damn droid,” he told her. “Nod if you understand.”

She didn’t nod. She looked him stonily in the face, a hint of a smirk pulling at her lips.

“I understand. Now fucking get on with it.” 

He grinned. She almost grinned back. He pressed in and kissed her. 

It was heady, rough… rougher than anything he had experienced with her. She was kissing back hard, but kicking at him, clawing at him, straining away.

She had taken to wearing the leggings and tunic that belonged under her snowsuit: essentially underwear, and nothing she would let anyone else see her in. He tugged the black leggings down, revealing the little white panties he had become familiar with. He pulled off her grey tunic, too, leaving her in just the standard corengel-infused tank top that supported her breasts. He slid her up the wall, pressing himself against her until she gasped against his mouth. 

The remaining items of her clothing were discarded, and he held her thrashing, naked form against the wall. He reached down and tested her, found she was ready. For a second she fell limp and moaned. 

“This what you want, your worship?” He asked, pressing his thumb harder against her. Her response was a stammered cry. “You want to feel all high and mighty and then get brought down by a scoundrel.” 

He pushed his thumb into her, flatly, then slid it up further into her. Her body rolled into it as she bit down on his shoulder. 

“That it, huh?” He muttered into her ear. He hoisted her into his grip and walked her over to the holochess table. He pulled her braid undone as he walked, and tipped her chin up to his, looked into her eyes. They were so dark and warm, he knew immediately she wanted this, exactly this. Her breath hitched like she thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he put her down and flipped her over onto the table, held her down with one arm as he undid his pants (Corellians did not wear underwear during the daytime, thank you very much), steadied himself and pushed into her.

Her scream was fantastic, more of a bellow really, and though he paused at first she immediately bucked against him. It was hot, too hot, so he threw off his vest and shirt, let his pants fall down to his ankles.

She snarled at him, cursing again, and he thrust in harder. She screamed again. He held her down, keeping that pace, kept that same angle, as he ground out that he wasn’t about to let her feel like she was too good for him, wasn’t too good for _this_ , wasn’t too _good and pure and royal_ to be fucked over a table by a smuggler in his ship. Her responding cries were higher pitched, louder, until finally she began a litany of his name, over and over again, until with one last scream she came. One more push, two, and then he followed, withdrew, and flopped over onto the circular bench beneath her. 

He listened to his breath, her breath, so hard against the table. He opened his eyes and there she was, peeking over the edge of the table, a strange look on her face. He started to ask if she was OK just as she started to speak.

“I don’t think I’m too good for you,” she said. He felt something reach out and strangle his heart.

“I know.” 

He reached up, cupped her face, managed to lean up into a kiss. 

Slowly, the two got up. She was so sweet, so little, standing there in nothing with her hair down around her elbows. He kissed her on the forehead and told her to go clean herself up, he would finish dinner (and clean up, and beg forgiveness from Chewie, who had entirely too much respect for his little princess than to hear her scream like a strumpet in the break room). 

The wookiee, it turns out, only gave Han a look and told him there was a place in a relationship for such behavior, but hopefully not in the public areas of the ship.

Later, in bed, they shared a single nerf steak and a ration bar. He fed her, amazed at the smudges of sauce against her lips. Eventually he moved down and licked his way into her, suckled lightly at her nub, made her whimper until she came and then complied when she asked him to enter her again. 

She better be careful, he told her after, when she was snuggled against his chest. It wouldn’t be too long before he was too old for that sort of thing. 

But really it became their favorite way to settle an argument, to end the bickering. It stopped being a relief in and of itself and instead became a climb, a chase to an end that would happen behind closed doors and soundproof walls.

Which is why, so often, in the middle of the meeting, Han would put his legs up on the table and raise an eyebrow at the report.

“ _Honestly, your stateness_ ,” he’d drawl, “ _I don’t see why we don’t just blast ‘em to smithereens._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! First Star Wars fic ever. There may be a companion fic in the works.


End file.
